A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) (15 page)

“They did this on purpose,” she said between gulping sobs. “It doesn't excuse what I've done; I know that, but it was all a trick.”

“I know,” Iredale acknowledged in a quiet voice.

“Please forgive me, Leo. I know I've betrayed you – dishonored myself, you and our betrothal, but I'm asking you to please find it in your heart to forgive me.” She covered her face with her hands too ashamed to look at him. He said nothing and let her cry. Time crawled by as she fought to control her tears knowing she had to look at him and face what she'd done. He deserved the chance to have his say. When she was able to meet his gaze he handed her his handkerchief. She took it, thanking him in a small voice.

“Araby,” he began, “I will forgive you for this eventually.” Her heart soared with hope for a moment before his next words brought it crashing back to earth. “If you were able to see past your own feelings now you'd understand that there's more to this than merely Lassiter and Kingsford's plot, ruthless as it was. If you were furious with Lassiter, or reviled him for his betrayal it would be one thing, but you see, my dear, you can't do that, because you actually love him and he broke your heart.” Araby started to deny what he said, but stopped herself. He was right. For all the ugliness and the humiliation she'd suffered during the past hour, the worst of it was that she'd been played for a fool by a man she truly loved, a man who could never love her in return.

“I know I don't hold your love now,” Iredale continued, “but I'd hoped I could capture it once we married. I'm afraid though, that Lassiter will always hold onto a piece of you, however small that piece is, or however reluctantly you give it to him.”

“No, please,” she cried, “You must listen to me. I'm so sorry. Let me prove myself to you, let me....” Now the fear began to work its way past the ice inside her.

“Don't beg, Araby. You demean us both. The fact remains that if you'd had any real regard for me, Lassiter could never have played his foul trick. I can't marry you. I refuse to take someone as my wife who isn't free to give me all of her heart. I deserve more than that.”

She nodded, knowing he was right and that she'd lost all her chances through your own folly. “I will be discreet,” he continued. “No one shall hear anything about tonight from me, or from anyone else. I shall make certain of that. It's best if each of us leaves London now. You can return to town next season. By then all this will simply be a distasteful memory and we can both go on with our lives.”

She put her hand on his forearm and he gently, but firmly removed it. “Don't say anything further,” he said coolly. “It is done and we both must go on from here. Fix your hair and dry your eyes. I shall go and ask Lady Katherine to attend you. Between us we'll get you out of here and away from prying eyes.” He gave her a slight bow and the courtesy made her feel even less worthy of his regard. Iredale turned to leave, but stopped for a moment at the door. Without turning back he said softly, “I would have loved you, you know.”

Chapter Nine

Duncan Gillian rushed through the doors of Harley Street Hospital for Indigent Gentlewomen, yelling for orderlies and nurses to attend him. The bundle in his arms moaned softly, his vigorous movements causing additional pain to her injuries. Within moments he'd laid the young woman down on an examination bed and began carefully removing her cape to assess the extent of the harm done to her.

“Cor, look at that dress,” exclaimed an orderly standing behind Dr. Gillian. “She ain't no White Chapel bint.”

Duncan eyed the orderly with anger. True enough, the young woman's clothing, though torn, and spattered with her blood had been very expensive. She also wore a suite of amethysts, a necklace, ear bobs, broach and bracelet. Someone had tried to rip the broach from the bodice of her evening gown, though Duncan doubted theft had been the primary motivation. He studied the bruising on her face and neck. One of her eyes was already swollen shut and by tomorrow the ugly marks would be a deep and vivid purple. A nurse set a basin of warm water and cloths down on the instrument table, then briskly shooed the orderly from the room. Duncan picked up a small scalpel and began cutting through the young woman's gown. Her corset and undergarments were of equally fine quality and the nurse was unable to hold back a sigh of dismay as Duncan sliced through her corset laces.

“It's all right Briggs,” he said drily, “If her family can afford the gown, I'm certain they can afford new laces.” In short order they had her undressed and Duncan completed his examination. His patient had two broken rids, a fractured collar bone and a dislocated shoulder. The marks around her neck suggested that someone had throttled her and in fact may have been intent on asphyxiation. Injuries like these mirrored the types of assaults he frequently saw at the clinic he ran in White Chapel. Those assaults usually came from a brothel's overzealous customer or from the hands of a violent husband. The young woman on the table moaned again and reached her uninjured arm towards him. She was trying to speak, but clearly the harm done to her throat prevented her from voicing any words. Briggs patted her shoulder and murmured reassurances as she assisted Duncan is positioning her so they could slip her shoulder back into position. Although they were successful on the first try, the pain caused their patient to faint. It was a blessing Duncan supposed as he set to work wrapping her ribs.

An hour later Briggs pursed her lips as she regarded the young woman asleep on the narrow metal bed in the second ward of Harley Street Hospital. “I suppose she could be someone's mistress. That would explain the clothes. They get beaten just as easily as one of those unfortunates in a brothel, perhaps more so.”

“She could be,” Duncan replied, in the soft burr of his Scottish accent, “but the cut of her gown and its color was too modest for one of the demimonde. Besides, my examination determined the young lady has never been...married.” He colored slightly as Briggs raised one eyebrow at his remark. “You know what I mean,” he muttered.

“You mean she's never been intimate with a man.” Duncan nodded. Briggs smoothed the blanket on the bed. “It's a mercy the lass wasn't raped out there on the street. This was bad enough.”

“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “At least she's safe here for the time being and she'll soon recover.” He pulled up a folding chair and sat down to watch his mysterious patient sleep. He bet once the bruises and scrapes healed she'd be lovely. Chances were that someone would be looking for her. He just hoped they wouldn't be returning her into the hands of her abuser.

***

She slept fitfully for the first few days, her dreams twisted by the laudanum and the events that had left her broken on the streets. As her pain lessened, so did the drops of the milky opiate, leaving only the memories of the attack. By rights she should be dead, a nameless victim of the London streets, but instead of some soulless thug finding her and finishing the job started by another, she'd been rescued by a tall man with a soft Scottish accent. Through her pain and terror, she'd felt him lift her and carry her to safety. From then on he'd stayed close by.

She didn't answer their questions – not about who she was, or where she came from. It was safer to pretend she couldn't remember and frankly, she'd rather forget everything that had come before she'd been brought to this place on Harley Street. Sometimes they whispered by her bed when they thought she slept. There had been talk of taking her to an asylum since her injuries were healed but her memory remain a blank slate. No one had come to claim her, they said, and she couldn't stay here forever. No one would come to claim her, she was reasonably certain of that. Elkhorn would want to remain as distanced from the events of that night as he could get. No, there was no one left to care what happened to her.

The nurse called Briggs bustled up to her bed, a hairbrush and mirror in her hands. She shrank from the mirror. She didn't want to look at herself. She didn't want to be reminded of what she was.

“Here hen, we're going to fix your braid and then Dr. Gillian says you can get up and sit by the window for a few minutes. Won't that be nice?” She didn't think it sounded nice to sit by a sooty window and stare out at nothing but other buildings, but she kept her opinions to herself. They meant well. Briggs helped her sit forward began brushing her hair. She wished they wouldn't fuss so. They had more important work to do. Once her braid had been restored to good order Briggs placed the mirror in her hand. Too late she realized what was going on. They wanted her to look at her face, to see if she gained some spark of memory. No, she'd stare at buildings all day long if they wanted her to, but she would not look in that mirror. She didn't want to see that face again, to see what she'd become. She struggled, but nurse Briggs soon had her way and she caught sight of her own reflection. She gazed at it in mute horror. No, that wasn't her. That couldn't be her. Surely that girl staring back at her was some evil imp masquerading as a person, but it wasn't her. She wouldn't let it be her. Not anymore. She began to cry as she looked at the familiar peaks and hollows of her face, the nose and chin that had inspired songs and poetry, the mouth that had once been able to call forth a young man's adoration with a well-practiced pout. She howled her agony at the mirror in her hand, wanting to cast it away from her so she could deny the image she saw reflected there and wouldn't have to claim it as her own, but nurse Briggs kept it firmly clasped in her hand by wrapping one of her own around it.

She tossed her head from side to side begging that Briggs take it away. She heard the damning words in her mind.
‘
Your face is your fortune, puss. By God, it's all our fortunes.
’
Briggs let go of the mirror and looked down at her patient in disbelief. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered. She'd seen what was left of her and it had no value in this world no matter what anyone said. Nurse Briggs shook her gently by the shoulder.

“Gracious, what a fuss you're making. The bruising is all but gone. It's nothing like it was when you came in here, my girl. You're lucky your face wasn't permanently damaged. That happens to plenty of others, I can tell you. You'll still be a beauty once you're all healed up and that's something to be grateful for.”

She couldn't hear the nurse, though. Other voices had begun to whisper in her head drowning out the sound of Briggs words, other voices from people who knew how ugly she really was inside and just how worthless she'd become.

Belle

Port of Balaklava, The Crimean Peninsula

July 1855

A group of orderlies struggled to unload stretchers from one of the ambulances – not an easy job at the best of times, but these men were exhausted as were their team of horses. The animals suddenly shifted in their traces, unnerved by their fatigue and the mayhem surrounding them on the dock. One of the orderlies stumbled, jostling the wounded man they carried and making him cry out in pain.

“Take care with those men, blast you, or I'll have the skin from your backs,”Admiral Boxer shouted. Boxer was a man known for his calm stoicism, but no one witnessing the scale of suffering on the wharf at Balaklava could remain unmoved. Belle certainly couldn’t, though most of the time she managed to tuck her feelings away. She offered warm smiles, a gentle touch and a calm, reassuring voice to frightened, wounded men, many of whom would not see another hour, much less the next day. To the others who awaited transport to hospitals in either Scutari, or Buyukdere, she offered water and what small treatments as were available.

Belle picked up her water bucket and moved to the next man lying in the endless line along the dock. She passed Admiral Boxer and dipped her head in deference. He looked at her coldly, turning his head away without acknowledgment. Hardly surprising. He'd made his feelings about women in the Crimea quite clear to Mary Seacole when she'd first arrived and despite Mary's success in treating some of the men since then, little had altered the man's perceptions.

The summer sun showed no mercy to the fallen, or to those striving to aid them. Flies buzzed around the man Belle tended, landing on the blood-soaked bandage that covered his abdomen. Belle shooed them away, but it did little good. The bandage told the tale and the insects knew the smell of approaching death. He stared sightlessly up at her and licked his dry lips. Belle lifted up his head gently in one of her arms while she used her other to bring a tin cup of water to his mouth. She trickled a little between his lips. The man blinked and his eyes focused on her. His feeble attempt at a smile and the trace of tears shimmering in his eyes gripped her heart and Belle recognized something she'd never thought to see in any man's face. Love.

“Lizzy,” he whispered. “I've come back to you, girl. I'm home now and all will be well. You'll see.” His eyes shone with such happiness. “Do you hear me Lizzy, I'm home.”

Belle swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded. She smiled at him as she reached down to take his hand in hers. She gave it a gentle squeeze. “Yes, love, you're home and I'm so happy to see you.”

“Oh, my Lizzy girl. I've missed you.” He coughed weakly and Belle murmured to him. “Where are the children? Don't they want to see their Pa?”

“Yes, dear, but you have to rest now. You'll see them...tomorrow.”

“I am tired, Lizzy, but I just want to keep looking at you. Prettiest girl at market day. Loved you from the first, I did...get better now I'm home. You'll...see. Love...you so.

“I love you too,” Belle answered through the tears filling her eyes. It wasn't her he saw or heard at all. And just like that it was all over. She gently laid him back and closed his eyes before pulling the worn blanket up over his head. She stood up fighting to keep her tears from falling. They wouldn't help him now, nor would they help his widow, Lizzy, the prettiest girl at market day. She glared, twisting her face to hold in her emotions, but it wasn't helping. She couldn't, wouldn't give in to them here.

Suddenly, she felt a hand grip her shoulder firmly and looked up to see Admiral Boxer. One of his staff stood beside him watching her with concern, but it was the Admiral who commanded her attention. “You did what you could for him,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “You did well, lass. Now get on with your job.” She looked up into his stern face and understood why his men followed his orders without question. She also understood that in this moment he considered her one of his 'men' and that she owed him that same obedience.

Her tears dried and she nodded, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” then she picked up her bucket and moved down the line.

***

“He claims it was an accident,” Rafe Kingsford said, “though I notice that each one of these boats has suffered similar accidents each time they transport our cargo. We've lost three or for four crates per boat and funnily enough, some other boat always happens along to salvage those supplies.” Rafe spat out the cigar he'd held clench between his teeth and prepared to draw his pistol. He was a second too late. Michael Lassiter, the new Earl of Stowebridge, had already drawn his own pistol and laid the barrel against the temple of the fishing captain who'd made the mistake of trying to cheat him.

The fleet of small boats used to ferry cargo from Michael’s ship, the Sarabande, belonged to some of the local Greek and Maltese fishermen. They routinely charged ships exorbitant fees for the use of their crafts and made certain that several crates of goods were 'lost' over the side on each trip. The crates were always salvaged and the contents resold to the British at triple its value. Michael had no problem with their attempt to make a living – he'd done similar things during his early days in India and Ceylon, but this was his cargo they were looting and the medical supplies and food were needed by the British troops. No one would be stealing one more damned crate from them. He cocked his pistol and the fisherman trembled in front of him, babbling apologies and guarantees that no further cargo would be lost.

Six hours later the last of the supply wagons trundled up the steep road heading towards the main supply route for the encampments that dotted the hills and plains around Sevastopol. Michael watched them go, wiping his arm across his forehead before replacing his canvas hat. The sun beat down relentlessly on the hard, dry earth and rocks, making every puff of breeze from the water a fleeting, but blessed reprieve from the heat. Rafe joined him on the narrow, dusty trail and offered him a drink from his water skin. Michael gratefully accepted it and drank deeply.

“How soon do we weigh anchor?” Rafe asked, taking back the skin and swallowing a mouthful of water himself. During the past two years the men had joined in several business ventures, some in partnership with the present Duke of Strathmore, Rafe's brother-in-law, Jules Wentworth. Time and proximity had formed a solid friendship between Rafe and Michael, but by tacit agreement, neither man spoke about th
e
Season of the Furies
,
as Michael had dubbed it, and neither of them had anything to do with Lord Ambrose.

“Old Boxer wants us out of the harbor as soon as possible. We sail on the tide, but at full dark,” Michael replied. “No sense in giving the Russian artillery an easy target. Too bad, though. I'd like to have gone and seen The British Hotel for myself. I hear this Seacole woman sets a fine table with plenty of good wine and whiskey – even champagne.”

“Too bad,” Rafe agreed. “I'd have enjoyed separating some of the officers from their money.” The two men began their slow trek back towards the dock.

“As I understand it, Mary Seacole doesn't allow gambling in her hotel,” Michael offered. “It's one of her hard and fast rules. She won't risk violence in her establishment, not when she depends on the commanding officer's good opinion.”

The Jamaican woman had arrived in the Crimea earlier in the year. Born of both Creole and Scottish descent, she had first achieved notoriety as a nurse and healer in the West Indies and by assisting the people of Panama during a severe outbreak of cholera. Mrs. Seacole, or Mother Seacole, as many of the sailors and soldiers called her, had run a successful hotel and infirmary for officers in Kingston, Jamaica which became the inspiration for her current enterprise, The British Hotel.

“One of Nightingale's birds, is she?”

Michael shook his head. “No, she applied to come with them, but was turned down. Even the Home Office refused her aid. I don't know the whys and wherefores, but luckily she has some very rich and powerful friends who helped her raise funds to come to the Crimea. She's been known to go right to the front lines to treat the wounded on the battlefield. There are many young men who owe her their lives.”

They'd no sooner reached the turn towards the dock when Emerson, one of Admiral Boxer's aids, a bright, energetic young man who acted as liaison between the port's command and the ship captains, approached them at a run. The Admiral wished to speak with them before they returned to their ship, he explained as he led the way along the wooden dock used as a debarkation point for the hospitals across the Black Sea.

Ambulances stood in line waiting to unload the sick and wounded and as fast as the sailors and orderlies finished with one of them, another moved in to take it's place. Michael turned to look grimly at the sheer number of litters already covering the dock. Two surgeons worked at a frenzied pace triaging the wounded. Some were placed in lines for loading onto the steam ship bound for Scutari. Others were simply shunted to the side. Nothing could be done for those poor devils. They would never survive the journey and there was no sense in them taking a space for some lad who might make it.

The smell of blood and death surrounded them. Drew had been here at one point, Michael realized with an agony that tore at his heart, and thankfully on that day someone had decided he might well survive the voyage across the sea. His brother had not only survived the voyage to Scutari, but the journey back to Britain as well. The familiar bite of guilt coupled with rage gnawed at Michael like some giant rat. He should never have kissed her, never have held her and given the witch the opportunity to use those moments against his brother. Arabella Winston should be here. She should see this infernal place and know what had become of the young man she'd scorned. A sense of helplessness washed over him. Drew might never walk again, because of him, because of her.

This was Michael's third trip to bring medical supplies and food; one to Scutari when he'd gone there to bring Drew home, as well as two other such trips to Balaklava. This supply run would be his last. The risks were too great and his title that had been thrust upon him so unexpectedly, came with responsibilities, not only in the House of Lords, but to the people who lived on his estates and depended on him for their livelihood. He also had his brother to look after, although Drew rarely spoke to him these days.

Emerson’s voice dragged Michael back to the present. “The Admiral would like to thank both you, my lord, and Mr. Kingsford, for your efforts to bring us aid. Many supplies never reach us before the Russian artillery sends them to the bottom of the sea.”

“Let's just hope they don't decide to blow us out of the water again on our way home,” Rafe said darkly, “though we certainly gave a good accounting of ourselves on the way here.”

“I believe the Admiral has a plan to help you avoid the Russian guns, sir. That is, if you don't mind a detour.”

“What is his plan?” Michael asked. He was not in any position to take more risks, but he'd hear Emerson out.

“Simply this, my lord. The Russians will not fire on ships evacuating the wounded. The Admiral wishes to use your ship to transport the overflow of wounded to the hospital in Buyukdere.”

“Done,” Michael answered succinctly.

Emerson smiled and enthusiastically laid out plans for docking and equipping the Sarabande as soon as The Melbourne finished loading wounded and pulled away. Emerson finished his explanations and hurried off to find Admiral Boxer leaving Michael and Rafe to wend their way behind him.

A movement seen from the corner of his eye snagged Michael's attention. He turned and saw a woman's soft, gray-colored skirts billow in the offshore breeze that blew lightly across the dock. He hadn't expected to see a woman here amongst this wreckage of humanity, though he knew that Mrs. Seacole often came to lend what aid she could. However, this woman wore the worn and faded, dove gray gown of an English woman, not the brightly colored fabrics said to be favored by the flamboyant Mrs. Seacole. The woman's features were obscured beneath her straw bonnet, one that had clearly suffered similar travails as her gown and apron. One of Nightingale's birds, most likely, though he wondered what she was doing so far from Constantinople. She stood beside one of the empty ambulances angled away from him, a bucket setting at her feet. She arched her neck and gracefully lifted the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture of weariness. Those simple motions conveyed a world of information to Michael; fatigue certainly, even resignation in way she squared her thin shoulders, but more than that, he saw breeding, a subtle elegance in her movements that not even these deplorable conditions had managed to eradicate. He moved slightly towards her willing her to turn in his direction as he'd done in another place and time to another woman. He wanted to see her face, damn it. He had to see it. His stomach tightened in a noxious mix of hope and dread. There was something so familiar in her carriage. Something that...no, it was insane to even consider the possibility.

Just then a tall, broad-shouldered man with reddish hair man joined her. His shirt and hands were spattered with blood. The woman dipped a cup of water from the bucket and poured it over his hands without comment. He rubbed them together as she repeated the process and then handed him a rag as if it were an action she’d performed countless times. He wiped his hands as he murmured his thanks. Then, as gallantly as if he was escorting her for a drive in Hyde Park, her assisted her onto the drivers seat of the wagon and climbed up after her. The driver slapped his reins and the horses started off towards the hot and dusty trail to town.